Chronic Remorse
by AgapeErosPhilia
Summary: Jowan had been a lot of things in his life, including a prisoner of the Chantry and a man named Levyn that the Chantry would never find. But a year after the Blight, he finds himself oddly drawn to one of the imposing buildings and the absolution it might still hold. One-shot, complete. Written for the DA FF Writers Facebook minor character spotlight.


Jowan sat in a shadowed wing of the Chantry and wondered what had possessed him to enter the place at all.

He winced at his mind's choice of words and did the precise inventory of his soul that had become so routine over the years. Any whispers of demons? Any temptations of power? Any place in himself where he felt useful, talented, beloved or in any other way worthwhile to the world?

The answers were, as always, no, and he relaxed against the stone bench.

A lay sister at the front of the chapel busied herself with whatever the business of the Chantry was. With a touch of amusement, he realized he didn't even know. The Chantry had kept him for most of his life, through the Circle, but they'd never prayed to the Maker in the usual way there. Mages never did anything the usual way. And while Lily, his first and sweetest love, could certainly have told him what her training entailed, the snatches of time they'd managed to steal for themselves had never been spent talking about the day-to-day life of the Chantry.

Jowan had stopped asking himself long ago what might have happened if he'd done things differently. A single step in a new direction might have changed everything, or nothing. With a Blight and a coup in the wind, the odds of everything going to shit had always been pretty high. In the three years since he'd become Levyn instead of Jowan, that was one of the few things he'd come to believe with all of his heart. Maybe the only thing. The Maker certainly hadn't found a hold.

Still, something had called to him when he'd passed this place, and if it hadn't been a demon, then the Maker was as likely as anything else.

He picked up a copy of the Chants from the slotted basket in front of him and thumbed through it idly before giving up and watching the lay sister once again. He let himself imagine it was Lily, free from the prison of Aeonar and no longer an initiate but a full Chantry member, just as she'd always wanted. Of course, she hadn't looked anything like the woman here, not that that signified anything. He'd changed his own appearance more times than he could remember, not always by choice. When a man broke someone's nose, it was rarely to help disguise him.

But no, this woman couldn't be Lily, for reasons that went far beyond her appearance. He was in a position to know. But the sister was beautiful, bathed in the light that always seemed a little softer in a Chantry chapel, somehow. A little more lovely. He wondered if they did something special to the windows.

It had been just like this, so long ago. Just a woman in the middle of a holy place, and him trapped inside, watching her and knowing beyond a doubt that he shouldn't be there. He'd grown up since his time in the Circle, but it seemed he'd never grown any wiser. It was madness to sit in a Chantry this way. Jowan was still a fugitive, though Alim Surana had made sure Levyn, at least, was safe. Jowan had never understood why he'd done that, but he was grateful all the same. The Hero of Ferelden had surely had better things to do before he died.

Maker but he was tired.

"Welcome, my son," said a voice above him, and he jerked awake so strongly that he almost made that full, dangerous reach to across the Veil to gather whatever power he could find. Still so easy, even now, to find the path of least resistance. No, he wasn't any wiser.

When he'd slowed his galloping heart, he looked up into the kind, hazel eyes of a Revered Mother. She looked worried but not afraid of him, and Jowan wondered idly how many people came in to the Chantry to die. One less than she'd thought, anyway, if the release of tension in her shoulders meant anything.

"May I help you in some way?" she asked. "Food, perhaps, or shelter? The storms have taken much from the people this year."

He shook his head.

"A blessing, then," she suggested.

"I just stopped in," said Jowan, but even to his own ears his voice was unconvincing. High and reedy and a little uncertain, always, even after all this time. "Just to see. I don't need a blessing."

He'd half-hoped his rudeness would turn her away - it did most people - but he'd forgotten about the sheer determination of a do-gooder about to do good. She settled on the bench next to him with the attitude of a person who had all day. "A listening ear is always welcome," she said. She smiled at him, and he was surprised at the humor that lived inside of it. "No one just stops in at a Chantry, my son."

"My name is Levyn," he said quickly.

"I didn't ask," she said. When he didn't answer, she added, "My name is Dorothea."

"Is that your real name?" Something about the way she'd said it hadn't rung true. It sounded like his own introductions.

"It is today," she said, and he nodded to himself. "Tell me, what were you thinking about?"

Jowan glanced at her sidelong, but she wasn't even looking at him. "I was wondering what the windows were made from."

That startled a laugh out of her. "Nothing particular, as far as I'm aware. Glass. What raised the question?"

"The light in here. It's different than outside. Even than other buildings. I was at Redcliffe Castle, once, and they had glass windows everywhere in the place. But the chapel was still always different. It looked different," he finished lamely. "I just wanted to understand why."

"Perhaps it's not the light that changes but one's eyes when she enters the room," said Dorothea. "The light only appears to be different because we're different within it."

He kicked at the bench in front of him. "That sounds like bullshit."

"Many true things do, Serah Levyn."

The twinkle in her words was wrong. Everything about her was wrong. "Are you sure you're a Revered Mother?" he asked. He looked around him uneasily, wondering if there were Templars around. Maybe his reaches to the Fade hadn't stopped as short as he'd thought. Maybe he'd been there, without realizing it. Maybe this was a closing trap. It came as a bit of surprise that he still didn't want to be caught in one.

"I'm afraid so," she said. "And my penance for it is to wear these dreadful robes."

She finally turned to look at him once more, and her eyes were no longer soft but gleaming with intelligence. Jowan realized with a sinking heart that this woman was far smarter than he was. Not that it was much of a bar to clear, but he hadn't expected to be so outmatched in a place like this.

"Does it concern you?" asked Dorothea. "To imagine that the Maker can work a change so small as the texture of light on the eyes?"

"It's wrong," he said in a low voice. "If He could do that, why not do more? Why not do everything? Keep people alive, who should be, and get rid of the ones who shouldn't? Make the world right? Make us better? At least if He's ignoring us, then we have no one to blame but ourselves. But if there are small changes, then the Maker is a cruel, vindictive bastard for not doing more. If He sees us, truly, and all He does is make light change in a room, then He's no more god than I am."

He fell silent and gave the Revered Mother a defiant look.

She returned it with a hint of amusement. "Do you think these aren't questions we've all asked? I didn't reach my position through blind faith, young man," she said. "And I cursed a great deal more about the whole thing than you would likely believe."

He must have looked surprised, because she shook her head. "A spiritual leader who'd never been in crisis would be a poor leader indeed. Doubt is the only path to certainty, because where doubt ends certainty begins. It's easy for a rootless tree to be toppled."

Lily flashed through his mind again, beautiful and pure in her faith. Jowan shook his head in return. "I knew a sister who wasn't like that. She believed."

 _But she would have run away with you,_ his mind whispered in response. _A mage, outside of the Circle. Against the Maker's will. What else is that but crisis?_

He frowned, trying to hold onto the surety of his memory. Trying even harder not to believe he'd been the crucible that would test her faith. To make her stronger for the bloody Chantry, of all things.

"And has her faith survived?" asked Dorothea gently.

"I don't know. She's dead."

Dead in a small village near rumored Aeonar, where the innocent gathered the remnants of their shattered minds. Innocence wasn't the same as absolution, and it certainly wasn't freedom. Lily hadn't been susceptible to possession. She'd never even had an impure thought. Her innocence had been very hard-proved.

Jowan had arrived at that village just in time to watch her die. Her voice that had once said the Chants so sweetly was a dry, cracked rattle, chipped and harsh against his ears. He'd heard refugees who'd sounded the same way. They'd screamed so much their voices had died inside of their throats.

He'd stared at his hands as she'd breathed past the water choking her lungs. She'd spoken desperate pleas that she wasn't a mage, that she didn't accept blood magic, that she had never seen a demon. Over and over again, the same words repeated, while she ran through the nightmares he couldn't take away. She'd never said his name in all the memories. He wondered if she'd erased him, or if the Templar jailors had done it for her. His palms were smooth and unmarked, now. He hadn't reached for blood magic in over a year, not since Alim had given him a new life.

He didn't reach for it then, either, even though it might have saved her. It would have made Lily's truths into lies.

And he didn't reach for it after he'd carried her into the nearby words, already stiff and cold in death, and burned her in the driving rain. His meager skill was barely enough to light the fire that would send her to the cursed Maker's side, but he whipped the Fade around him in a mindless frenzy until it submitted to his will. His sweat mingled into the water that poured over him while lightning flared in the sky above. Thunder crashed and wind tossed the trees, and it had seemed fitting that the world itself should riot at the death of such a woman. How young they'd been. How foolish. How in love.

He'd left a marker in the muddy earth by her ashes and laid a token on it. It was a simple trinket, a necklace of thin gold, and the most expensive thing he owned. Someday someone would find it and take it and sell it as their own. But for now it was hers, anchored to Thedas on the half-buried stone that was his.

He came back to the present when Dorothea put a hand over his own, and he saw that there was still dirt under his fingernails that he hadn't bothered to clean. "I'm sorry," she said. "Losing someone you love is difficult."

"I lost her a long time ago," said Jowan. He screwed his eyes shut against the pain. "No. I killed her a long time ago. It just took a while for the world to catch up."

When he opened them again at the silence, the lay sister was standing in front of him with a curious look on her face. "I know you," she said in lilting Orlesian accents. "We met during the Blight. The mage at Redcliffe."

A villager, most likely, or someone who worked in the castle. Another person he'd almost killed. Jowan made his face blank. There was no use in denial, but at the least he could refuse to acknowledge the truth. One of the first lessons learned in the Circle, and the last to be unlearned.

But the woman didn't seem interested in an answer. "Alim let you go," she said.

That shattered his blankness quickly. Not a villager, then. But he didn't remember a Chantry sister being present when he'd spoken to his friend in that cave-like dungeon. Just a lot of very heavily armed people. "Who are you?" he asked. Still cautious, after all this time.

"Leliana," she said. "I traveled with the Hero for a long time. A very long time. He told me a lot about you, Jowan."

He was too tired to correct her. Why had he come to this place? "I'm sure it was a riveting story of eternal failure."

Leliana raised a delicate eyebrow, and Jowan was vaguely pleased that if this was to be the end, it would be at the hands of someone so beautiful. "There were many failures in his tale. He believed himself to be their creator."

"Alim?" said Jowan sarcastically, an open wound burning within him once more. "The First Enchanter's favorite pupil, the most talented mage in the history of Thedas, whose only fault was his choice of mediocre friends? He never failed at anything. The world would have rewound time itself to stop it."

Too late he remembered that this Leliana had apparently also been one of his friends, but she didn't seem to take offense.

Dorothea squeezed his hand, and he jumped. "Was your friend truly so unworthy?" she asked.

"He's dead, too, so what does it matter?"

Leliana flinched, and he felt sorry for his words, but not sorry enough to take them back. She smoothed a hand that trembled only slightly over her pale pink robes. "Death is only the beginning, to those who walk with the Maker. And it's only the first end, for those of us who remain separated from his mercy," she said.

"Tell us what troubles you," said Dorothea unexpectedly.

Her voice was so empty, so inviting, that he was drawn into the hollow of her confession before he knew he was beginning. He told them of his time in the Circle, the long periods of bleak and futile effort, the always-lurking threat of Tranquility for those whose efforts were the most futile. Jowan had only bad emotions, most of the time, but they were still his. He didn't want them to vanish. His blood and his mind were the only things he could truly call his own, and he used them as best he could.

And of course there was Alim, never in danger and always around, and Lily, the shining trap that Jowan had been too foolish to see. He told them about his grand plans and even grander failure, how he'd fled and fumbled into duller and duller traps, killing and dooming and breaking the world. Redcliffe and Loghain and Connor, and on and on it went. A tale of the world falling away from him as he fled. When Jowan had finished that final flight out of the dungeons, Alim's banishment ringing in his ears, he'd finally realized that he'd always been the trap. He carried it inside of himself, and simply being Jowan was enough to trigger the pain.

But he was still all he had. So he'd become Levyn, and tried again. It wasn't better, not really, but it was something.

He should have known he'd see Alim one last time.

The elf had found him with a group of refugees, where he fought Blight-touched animals with a furious desperation. Jowan had called every power at his disposal to help, including blood, figuring that if he was already damned he'd at least make use of the damnation.

Alim's eyes had been so sad when he watched the red death drip from Jowan's fingers. His friend had said he'd never wanted to see him again, but what Alim had meant was that he'd never wanted to see him failing again. But Jowan had given up on that dream so long ago. He'd been born to fail. That was easy. The hard part was to make sure the failures could do some good, and at that he was certainly improving.

To his surprise, Alim hadn't captured him. He'd blessed him in a strange language, Dalish from the sound of it, and pulled Jowan into a tight hug that felt like dying. He'd whispered that blood was more controller than controlled, and to be free of it. He'd said his own blood would betray him, one day, but Jowan had a hope of a new life. And before he left, he'd slipped a map into Jowan's hand that showed the way to Aeonar and its promise of Lily.

"I always wondered why he tried helped us escape the Circle," said Jowan under that glowing Chantry light. "It wasn't like him to break the rules. It wasn't like him to rebel. But after that, I understood. He loved Lily even more than I did. I wish I'd known that. I wish I'd let them go without me. Alim never would have been caught alone."

During his dry-eyed recitation, Leliana had taken the seat on his other side, and she reached out in the new silence and took his hand. "He helped you out of love," she said softly, "but it wasn't for love of Lily."

Jowan twisted to her, startled, but she didn't look like she was joking. "That's impossible," he said, searching through his memories. "He never said anything."

"He wasn't the kind of person who said things."

No, he hadn't been. Alim had been quiet. Private. Steady.

"But I didn't -" began Jowan, before falling into helpless silence. He looked at the floor. "I would have been kinder, had I known."

"Perhaps he didn't want such kindness," said Dorothea behind him.

"Alim regretted many things," said Leliana. "He believed you failed to escape because he didn't wish you to go. He never forgave himself for not asking you to come with us at Redcliffe. He wished he'd found the map earlier. But he was never sorry that you didn't know. He was proud of you when he saw you with the refugees." She gave him a small smile. "Prouder than the rest of were, if I'm being honest."

Jowan shrugged. "I don't blame you," he said. "I've never been anything to be proud of. But it seems unfair. I never… not with men. But maybe I could have tried." The sadness in that last hug, the death in the air. "He shouldn't have died like that. Not for someone like me."

"If it helps, he found love with someone before the end," she said. "Or as much love as there could be, where we were. They were happy together. He didn't die alone."

It didn't help. "It's not fair. Them both dead and me still here. They were better. Here," he said, pointing to his heart. "And there," he said, flinging his free hand out to light a brazier with the whisper of Fade that would never quiet inside of him. "The world shouldn't be this way. The Maker should do something about it, or what's the point of anything."

He stood abruptly, and neither Chantry servant tried to stop him. "The Chantry is looking for me," he said, trying to sound brave, but he heard the quaver in his voice. "Take me back to the Circle. I'm sure you'll be rewarded."

Dorothea looked up at him appraisingly. "The Chantry is looking for you. But that is only a way of saying that the Maker is looking for you. And who are we to say what the Maker's purpose for you may be," she said.

Jowan narrowed his eyes as the Revered Mother leaned back. "You've said the world shouldn't be this way," she added. "Perhaps the Maker is doing something."

Leliana's hesitant voice echoed his own feelings. "Dorothea, is this wise?"

"Those who seek change are rarely allowed the luxury of too much wisdom," said Dorothea. "We've been seeking a solution for the mages. Something to help them without endangering them. And the Maker has sent us someone who could have used such a solution. I don't question His gifts."

"I don't understand," said Jowan.

"Tell me, Levyn, do you use blood magic now?"

He shook his head slightly. "Not since that day in the woods, with Alim. He asked me not to. And it certainly never brought me anything worth having."

Dorothea looked at Leliana. "Proof that a blood mage can reform. Proof that possession is not their only end. Proof that the Rite of Tranquility is not the only tool to close a mind to corruption," she said. "Yes, this is a gift."

"But what do we do with him?" asked the younger woman. "Parade him around in front of us and hope the rest of the world sees sense?"

"Of course not. We'll need more support before even hinting at such a thing. We'll have to hide him away."

 _I am right here_ , Jowan almost said, but when Leliana turned a suddenly sharp gaze on him. It raked across him with such terrible intensity that he almost covered himself, despite the fact that he was fully clothed. And when the sweet smile of a Chantry sister graced her lips again, it didn't feel as harmless as it had before. "Have you ever considered a life of Chantry service?" she asked.

"I can't say that it has," he said slowly. "But I can't say I've considered much of any kind of life, beyond fugitive."

"This will be better," said Leliana firmly. "Welcome to the Maker's fold, Brother Levyn."

And just like that, it was done. As simple as a spell, and as quick, and his life had changed once again. What was the use of fighting it? He'd never been able to stop the wheels of the universe from rolling as they would.

Dorothea rose to bless him gently, and she whispered before she left, "The comfort of a Chantry life, my son, is that the regrets of the past become our service. There's no need to run from what has been done, because what has been done is what has shaped us into the tools the Maker needs." She sighed. "And you have already been through your crisis, I think. Doubt can become certainty, with enough care."

Then the older woman stepped back and smiled more impishly than any Revered Mother had a right to. "And if you're here long enough, I'll tell you the secret of the windows."

Jowan gaped at her as Leliana propelled him into a back room. She rifled through drawers, muttering, until she extracted a set of robes and thrust them out behind her. "These should fit," she said. "And we have a bath here. It's through that far door. You definitely need it."

"Was Alim really happy when he died?" asked Jowan impulsively. "I mean, not when he died. I don't know if that would make anyone happy. But before that?"

She turned around and folded her arms. "For a man destined to sacrifice himself, he was very cheerful," she said, then relented when he winced. "Yes. He had friends. He had a lover. He had a purpose. Alim never felt like he fit, he told me. At the Circle, he was an elf, and only his skill saved him. In the world, he was a mage, and only his softness hid him. And everywhere, he loved men, and only his reluctance to show it kept him from being alone."

Leliana shrugged when he didn't say anything. "But what we gathered during the Blight was enough for him, I think. He went into that final battle happier than he'd ever been. But I still miss my friend."

"So do I." And he wished he'd been a better one, while he'd had the chance.

The red-haired lay sister nodded and half-sang a piece of the Chant, one used to send souls to the Maker's side. The one Jowan hadn't been able to remember when Lily had most needed him to remember it.

When she finished, he tried to smile. "Lily sounded like that," he said. "Like it was all real. She made me want it to be, even if it meant I was born to be a prisoner."

"I'm not nearly as sweet as your friend was," said Leliana. There was a strange sadness on her face, underneath the wry humor.

Jowan laughed despite himself. "No, I imagine you aren't. I remember you, now, in that dungeon. When Alim let me go, the bulky guy argued, and the dark-haired woman slapped him for arguing, but you just stood in the back. You had a bow in your hands, and I thought you were going to kill me," he said. Her eyes were the same now, cool and impersonal and waiting for him to finish speaking out of politeness instead of interest. "I almost hoped you would," he added quietly.

"I wanted to give you a chance to be better," she said, and he shivered. "And here you are. Smelly and unwashed and still not in your proper clothing."

"My apologies, sister," he said.

And just like that, the Chantry sweetness was back. "We'll see about that," she said. "Dinner is in an hour, and then the nightly chores."

She swept out of the room, and he made his way into the bathing room. There were buckets of water that were surely cold, but that didn't matter to him. As he settled into the newly filled tub, warmed by tendrils of fire that were gentler than they'd been in some time, he wondered what it would be like to be Brother Levyn, Chantry infiltrator. Likely more dangerous than peaceful, in the end. But that was okay. Peace was a thing he didn't much deserve.

Chants floated through the door, in Leliana's distinctive voice, but he still heard Lily underneath them. Maybe he always would.

He raised his hands into the muted light of the Maker and stared at his unmarked palms. The blood was close, just waiting to be used. Perhaps such power would be needed again, someday. Even the most sincere promises faded in the face of desperation. But, at least for now, it would be a relief to heal.


End file.
